Cooking With
by Diablogyrl
Summary: "No BLOODY magic!" Hogwarts is hosting a contest for it's students. A contest without magic? But who's prepared for such a thing? You know what they say; the way to a man's heart is thru his stomach. A little humor, a little drama, a lot of detail.
1. I Challenge You to a Duel

Fandom: Harry Potter, AU (not HBP/DM compliant)  
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Hermione/Snape  
Rating: Teen  
Synopsis: After a thoughtlessly made challenge, Hogwarts hosts a cook-off for the students. Some unlikely characters boast some surprising talents (or lack thereof).  
**_No copyright infringment intended... but that should have been a given._**

Cooking With…

"You know," Ron began conversationally, "after all these years, those house elves still amaze me with the meals they can turn out." He shoved another forkful of casserole into his mouth. "I mean, they never burn anything! And the quantities…" he paused to swallow the mound of food he held in his cheeks. He followed with an appreciative belch. "Ah!"

"Oh, don't get her started, Ron," Harry chided as Hermione opened her mouth to lecture. She quickly closed her mouth with a snap and sent a glare in Harry's direction. Sniffing haughtily, Hermione flipped a stray hair back from her face and picked up her goblet of pumpkin juice.

"Come on, Hermione. You have to admit, the food is always good. Better than good, even; you must think so, too. You eat it." Ron grinned at her indignant expression.

"I always thought Ron's mum was a wonderful cook," Harry said graciously, remember the food parcels he'd received during the summer the Dursley's tried to starve him… repeatedly.

"Gran's not really the best at cooking, but you'll never hear me saying that around _her_," Neville supplied with a shudder from his place on the other side of the table.

"Well, I don't mean to boast—," everyone within earshot snickered and roll their eyes, "—but I make a _**mean**_ Sheppard's Pie," Seamus tilted his chin up in pride. "It's a Finnegan specialty," he added with a nod.

"If you tried to cook, you'd blow up half of wizarding Scotland," drifted a nasal voice from behind them. All eyes turned to see Pansy Parkinson passing a few feet away, a bored looking Malfoy allowing himself to be dragged along behind her.

"You're just jealous because you probably can't boil water without burning it," someone volunteered from the vicinity of the Ravenclaw table. A chorus of laughter followed the comment.

"I'll take you losers on any day! I'll bet I can cook anything better than you lot can!"

"You're on, Parkinson! What are the stakes?" Seamus spat out.

"If—, no _when_ I win, you have to be my own personal house elf for a week."

"So, when I whip your graceless behind from here to Hogsmeade, you have to be my servant for one whole week?" he crowed with unconcealed glee.

"Bring it on, you bloody leprechaun!"

"Wait just a moment," a cluster of Ravenclaws interrupted. "Why should you two get to have all the fun?"

"Yeah, why not let some REAL cooks roll you pretenders out flat?" came a jibe from further down the table. The surrounding groups erupted into a smattering of insults and queries.

"Why, indeed?" floated down the firm voice of Dumbledore. Heads turned to the head table as conversation trickled off. After a brief word with the professors in attendance, Dumbledore addressed the crowd. "May I have your attention, please," he spoke into the now silent hall. "Houses Gryffindor and Slytherin have proposed a marvelous suggestion; Hogwarts will host it's very first Student Cook Off!"

The silence in the great hall splintered into hundreds of perplexed and excited voices. Harry, Ron and Hermione glanced at each other, and then at the tables around them, and finally settled their gazes on the back of the quickly Pansy Parkinson.

"She's had her bluff called now. She won't stand a chance!" Dean sang out, clapping Seams on the back and sharing a laugh.

"Going to enter, Harry?" inquired Colin Creevey, glancing around and snapping pictures of animated conversations everywhere. Harry frowned slightly.

"Well, I wouldn't really consider it…" he admitted quietly. Hermione kicked Ron under the table and thrust her chin in Harry's direction.

"Alright, there, Creevey, you're being called," Ron put a hand to Colin's back a gave a friendly shove in the direction of a conversation that was quickly heating up at the Hufflepuff table. "Make sure you get some good shots," he hollered after Colin's retreating form. Ron turned back to Harry as Hermione leaned forward.

"Harry, we know that this might be uncomfortable for you, given the things you've been through," she whispered, "but we're here to support you, whatever you decide."

"Of course we are, mate," Ron nodded in agreement. "Whatever you want to do, we'll back you up."

Flashes of the Dursley residence flickered behind Harry's eyes as they glazed over, lost in unpleasant memories. _A hot stove. The dual burn of the oil from the pan and the switch across his legs._ _Stomach pains so intense that they bring him to his knees. Hearing his aunt, uncle, and cousin gobbling up the meal that took him hours to prepare. Another night without dinner._ He shook his head vigorously, clearing the ugly thoughts from his mind's eye.

"We'll see," Harry said simply. His two best friends looked at him with affection. "Oy, don't go getting all mushy on me," he chuckled. "How about you two?"

"Well, I've never really tried to cook but it's kind of like making potions, right? I can definitely do that, so I guess I'll give it a go," Hermione considered thoughtfully.

"Not me, mate! I couldn't cook to save my arse, that was more Charlie and George's talent," Ron despondently offered.

"Wow, I didn't know that," Harry and Hermione replied in sync. All three of them burst into chuckles.

"All that time we spent at the Burrow, and I never realized…"

"Those were the good ol' days, weren't they?"

"Yeah, they were."

"Did I ever tell you guys about that time Fred and George stuck a wad of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans in mum's—"

"Hey, Dumbledore's already posting the rules up in the front entryway!"

Students from all four house tables poured out of the great hall. The rumble of feet toppled empty goblets and rattled plates and cutlery as it flowed by. Surrounding the newly place contest parchment, various statements could be made out through the din of voices.

"Does that say 'No Magic'?"

"That is so… _muggle_!"

"One hour? To cook your best dish?"

"What can you cook in an hour?"

"Especially with no magic?"

"It shouldn't take more than an hour to cook just one dish."

"Qualifying rounds? What are those?"

"No magic?!" Pansy's shrill yell pierced the dull roar.

"Heh, heh. Looks like somebody put the broomstick before the snitch," Ron jerked his thumb towards a wildly gesticulating Pansy, who was currently screaming in fury at an apathetic and still bored looking Draco Malfoy.

"I almost feel bad for him right now," Harry shook his head in near-sympathy. Pansy continued to shriek as Malfoy looked disinterestedly at his fingernails.

"Too right, that," Ron added.

"C'mon, then, boys," Hermione looped an arm in the crook of each boy's elbow.

"Where to, 'Mione?" Ron asked.

"With Hermione, what else is there?" Harry rolled his eyes.

"To the library!" They called in unison.

.

_AN: The story is mostly written, but I like the ebb and flow of ideas, so there's no set timeframe on posting chapters. If you have any ideas, feel free to leave me a note and let me know!_


	2. But How Can You Tell?

She flipped through the book on her lap with increasing agitation. She had lost count of the number of texts she had scoured, a huge pile haphazardly perched on the table beside her unused arm already. Hermione was at her wit's end trying to find the perfect recipe for this contest. She was beginning to think it impossible to find something worthwhile that could be done in an hour or less. She snuck a peek to her left at Harry, who was serenely browsing through pastry recipes and humming slightly to himself. Her exasperated sigh brought him out of his musings.

"Still nothing, eh?" Harry inquired gently.

"I think this is hopeless," Hermione returned, despondent.

"No such thing, 'Mione," he shot back quickly. Harry pushed his chair away from the table with purpose and slid from his seat to make his way around to Hermione's huge stack of recipe books. Shuffling through the top third, he eased a thin paperback from the pile.

"Tada!" he presented the book to the witch as though he were a small boy giving his mum the gift of a mud pie. The title read Fast Food Frenzy and the cover photo was and empty skillet, surrounded by open cans and boxes of prepackaged and processed foods. "You're overthinking it, Hermione," Harry continued. "You don't need to become a Michelin star chef to cook something that tastes good."

"But Harry, if I use pantry foods, isn't that a bit like cheating?" Hermione pursed her lips, disapproving of even the thought. Harry lifted his eyes skyward for a breath.

"Not exactly _cheating_, no," he began. "More like… well… a _shortcut_," he finished with an air of authority. Harry could read the skepticism on his friend's face as she waited for him to continue. "Look," he tried again, "basically, the rules are clear; you have to cook one dish, it needs to be human food, you have one hour, and you can't use magic. There are plenty of ingredients that come prepared simply because it's not possible to plan to cook them on an average night. It is _not_ cheating."

"Oh, Harry, I don't know…" She still looked unsure, hesitantly reaching for the book. He crossed the distance between their hands to place it firmly in hers. With a brief clap on her shoulder to emphasize his confidence in her, Harry walked back around to his vacated spot and retrieved the pastry book he'd been browsing before their conversation. He stuffed the parchment and quills he'd laid out earlier back into his bag and slung it across his back.

"Are you heading back to the common room?" Hermione threw over her shoulder as she turned to fish writing supplies from her own satchel.

"Just to drop off my things. I'm going to nip out and see Hagrid before dark," Harry replied, scanning the library for Madam Pince so he could check out the cookbook cradled in his arms. "When Ron wakes up, let him know I'll meet you both in the hall at dinner." He glanced down fondly at his best friend, who had drifted off soon after they arrived in the library, and was currently drooling into a copy of 30-Minute Meals.

"Alright, then." Hermione was already distracted, attacking the contents of Fast Food Frenzy with renewed vigor. She didn't notice when Harry left the library, pastry book in tow. Nor did she notice the scheming face of Pansy Parkinson poking out from the next aisle, eagerly gathering her belongings in order to rush off to the dungeons to impart her newly acquired bit of leverage.

**...**

Harry ducked through the portrait of the fat lady and was hit with a wave of excitement and agitation as the common room was littered with students, books, and heated debates on cook times and food preparation. Nodding to a few classmates, he wound his way around the throng and headed up the stairs to the boys dormitory.

Dumbledore had offered Harry the opportunity to finally take on the role of Prefect, but graciously extended the choice to continue to room with the same boys he'd grown up with. The boy-who-lived had leapt at the chance to stay right where he was. He was all too aware that he could use as much normalcy as possible in his life. Keeping the same old routines went a long way towards keeping his nightmares at bay.

He dumped his bag onto his bed, and pulled his invisibility cloak out from under his pillow to tuck under his robes, just in case he ran late. He set the pastry book lightly on his nightstand, taking a moment to finger the spine and will away the knot that had been tightening in his stomach since the contest announcement that morning. Throwing off his doubts with a quick shake of his arms, he left the dormitory in search of his dearest giant friend.

It took Harry no time at all to make his way to the corridor leading out of the back of the castle, but he was surprised to find his way blocked by one rather blond, rather smarmy, awfully bored looking resident. Harry gradually slowed his pace to a stop, just a few yards away from his longtime nemesis. He watched quietly for a minute or so, sizing up the other boy. As Draco was looking off into the distance, Harry took a moment to really look at him. Pale fingers clasped loosely, an elbow supporting his weight as his long back bent slightly over a bit of broken stone wall, darkening sunlight glinting from highlights in hair that had grown overlong and looked artlessly tousled. The entire image appeared a bit vulnerable, and significantly more human than he would have previously believed possible. Harry filed that bit of information to be revisited at a later time, and waited to see if Malfoy would reveal this meeting to be planned or coincidence.

A deep sigh drifted to him on the wind, and Draco Malfoy straightened up slowly, purposefully, and turned sharp grey eyes directly onto Harry's face. Not one to back down from a confrontation, even when it might be smarter to do so, Harry didn't move a muscle. He simply stared back, a look of expectation plainly gracing his face.

"Potter," came the patented Malfoy drawl after a few seconds.

"Malfoy," he returned evenly. He continued to meet the eyes of the Slytherin, and the answering gaze seemed perfectly content to just look. After what felt like an eternity, Malfoy's lashes fluttered downwards, and he let out his breath in a huff that almost sounded like a chuckle.

"Do you remember, that day I tried to warn you about associating with the right type of wizard? The day I wanted you to choose your friends?" Malfoy spoke while his eyes remained closed, seemingly lost in memories.

"I'll never forget it," Harry agreed. "Why?"

Malfoy's eyes snapped open, and he glanced down at the ground for a moment before moving towards Harry, and back to the castle. Pausing mid-stride, he leveled his gaze with Harry's once again.

"I'm glad you didn't choose me."

Harry watched his retreating form until he couldn't make it out anymore, and then resumed his trek to Hagrid's cottage, totally and utterly perplexed.

**.**

_**AN: **It seems like this story is going to end up a lot longer than I thought it was going to be. Ah, well. We all like long stories, right? :)_


	3. Boil, Boil, Toil and Trouble

"So, you see, the need for y—"

"No."

"Now, Severus I be—"

"NO."

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, lifting his hands from the armrests where they had been bracing his weight a moment before. He drew his fingers together in front of his chest, dropping his elbows to land where his palms had been. As he opened his mouth to begin again, Severus cut him off with an abrupt lift of his own hand.

"Surely," he drawled, not bothering to hide the distaste in his tone, "you can understand that after years of being subject to the most ill-concocted, noxious smelling, haphazardly executed and ridiculously botched potions on a DAILY basis…" He paused for emphasis. "I would not. _Ever_. WILLINGLY. Allow my internal organs to be subject to the mercy of these little arsonists. Contrary to previous choices in employer, I am not, in fact, suicidal."

"You're being overly harsh, Severus."

"You've become overly senile, Albus."

Dumbledore sighed, and allowed his body to sink the rest of the way into the chair. Severus stood in front the desk silently, stoic in his resolve to have nothing to do with judging the cooking contest. The headmaster was pensive for a few breaths.

"Well, Severus, if you are determined not to be part of the panel—"

"I'm glad you found your senses in this, Albus, as—"

"—then you can simply mentor the contestants until it's time for the contest itself."

"—I certainly planned to do _WHAT_?"

"I'll post the notice in the morning. Thank you for bringing this issue to my attention, old friend. I never would have considered the potential ramifications of a contest without proper preparations." His eyes twinkled in mirth, even as his face showed nothing but concern.

"Headmaster, at the risk of losing my position, I—"

"No, don't give it another thought! I'll take care of all the arrangements. Would you mind terribly fetching Mr. Filch on your way back to the dungeons?" With that polite dismissal, he turned his attention to summoning a few sheets of parchment to draft his notice.

Snape was dumbstruck. How had he managed to be outmaneuvered in such an ignoble fashion? And how the devil did Albus Dumbledore manage to do that with such irritating _regularity_? Turning with his signature, bat-like flourish, he left the tower office in a huff, mentally chastising himself the entire way, only pausing at Filch's door to relay the summons from above. By the time the professor reached his office door, he had decided to use the opportunity to turn this proposed lunacy into an excuse to take as many house points as possible before the contest. He allowed a small smirk as he closed his door behind him.

**...**

Snape paused his grading of papers and cocked an ear towards his office door. After a moment of silence, his quill resumed its scratching across the essay on his desk. A few lines down the page, he was distracted again by a faint shuffling sound. Dropping his quill in annoyance, Snape abruptly rose from his seat and made his way over to the entryway. He flung open the door with unnecessary force and was surprised to find Hermione Granger fidgeting like a first year. He cleared his throat loudly and she took a startled step back, casting her eyes to the floor and quickly back up at him.

"And to what, _Ms. Granger_," he ground out through clenched teeth, "do I owe the singularly unpleasant nature of your company?" Hermione tried to steal herself.

"Professor, I need your help," the words tumbled out in a rush.

"With. WHAT?" Snape posed the question with obvious disdain.

"Well," Hermione began again, stammering a bit. "What I meant to say, Professor, is that I would _like_ your help, that is, if you've time, Professor, and if it isn't against the rules, of course, because that would not be appropriate at all, and I certainly wouldn't want to be accused of mal—"

"ENOUGH!" Snape's voice was firm, and its pitch was deadly. Hermione's lips snapped closed like a trap and she found herself focused on her teacher's mouth, waiting for him to spew whatever venom he undoubtedly held in reserve, just for her.

Severus hesitated for just a second; words seem to escape him as his student focused so much attention on his face that found it mildly unnerving.

And a bit… exciting.

He blanched for a heartbeat, and then grabbed Granger by the upper arm to haul her out of the potions classroom before the world came down around his ears.

"Pro—, professor! Please, hear me out!" Hermione began to dig in her heels, hoping to slow her departure when she realized Snape meant to eject her without preamble.

"Ms. Granger, I do not have time for games and riddles. There are an entire school of teachers who can make themselves available for whatever insignificant tasks you are trying to accomplish. No doubt, a smattering of those dense souls may even be _willing_ to do so." Snape's voice was clipped and tight.

"I'm not sure what I did or said to give you a turn, Professor," Hermione tried to backtrack, "but I assure you there is no other instructor at Hogwarts equal to this task." She felt the brutal tugging on her arm lessen as Snape slowed to wrap his mind around her words. She capitalized on the moment by twisting free of his slackened grip and pulling a selection of books from the overflowing bag she always had with her.

Severus Snape was having a hard time processing what had just happened. For the second time that day, the path he'd set himself upon had been utterly ambushed, and his personal feelings in the matter completely disavowed. He was sure that he would wake up any moment, because he couldn't **possibly** be losing his edge so spectacularly. In his preoccupied state, he was inattentive enough to miss out on Hermione Granger setting up shop along one of his classroom tables. When he was able to rouse himself from his musings, the former death eater was stunned by the sheer number of cauldrons she had managed to line up, complete with fires lit, in the space of a few haggard breaths. With a snarl, Snape released his wand from his robe sleeve and without fanfare snuffed every single fire, sending cauldrons sailing towards shelves and closets.

"Impudent girl! Didn't I say—"

"Professor! Aren't you listening?" Hermione halted the flurry of flying equipment with a quick flick of her wand and they reversed direction altogether, landing neatly back in the order she had set them up in. She found herself treated to a sight few living wizards could say they had ever seen: Severus Snape, eyes bulging from their sockets, face a mottled plate of pink and red, mouth gaping like a large-mouthed bass, moving from open to closed but no sound escaping. Hermione saw his wand hand shaking, little tremors running unchecked down his arms, and deftly '_accio_'d' it away before he could do any unintentional damage. Or **intentional** damage, for that matter.

The Head Girl felt a surge of confidence unlike any she'd had before with the potions master. After all she had been through in the last few years; she finally felt she could stand her ground on the same level. He no longer frightened her as he had when she was a child, nor did he cow her as he did at the age of fourteen. Watching the man stand stock still, frozen by his lack of control over the situation, Hermione felt _powerful_. She stood a little straighter, and her voice rang a little clearer.

"Now, Professor, as I was saying, I understand the theory behind the disbursement of the ingredients at various temperatures, but I haven't had any luck replicating the results in practicum."

"Disbursement… theory?" Snape echoed.

"Yes, Professor."

"…practicum?" another hollow sounding query.

"_Yes,_ Professor." Hermione noted that the wizard had yet to move from his statuesque position near the classroom entrance. "Oh, do sit down, Professor Snape! You're not being very helpful over there, you know," she continued to encourage him as she flipped open Fast Food Frenzy to page 213. Trance-like, Severus Snape drifted to the bench nearest the first cauldron and plunked down on it heavily. The bemused witch couldn't stop her lips from twitching upwards when she heard him muttering to himself.

"I'm dreaming. Surely, I'm still asleep. This isn't happening. This isn't _**possible**_. This can't be real. I'm not here right now. This whole day has not happened…"

.


End file.
